


You Make Me What I am

by ausmac



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Death Knight Garrosh, M/M, Painplay, S&M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2019-02-17 07:47:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13072386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ausmac/pseuds/ausmac
Summary: Not everyone survives the Burning Legion.  Not everyone remains dead.  The reborn can play a part and the living can benefit from it.





	1. Garrosh

 

Garrosh spends an hour or more of his first night standing naked before a mirror studying himself.

His skin is an unpleasant sickly colour, disturbing even without the lucent oddness of his eyes to distract him.  Scars criss-cross his body, as if he were a child’s toy poorly sewn together.  He runs his fingers across the various scars, both familiar and new.  The newer ones overwrite the old, made by Thrall crushing him, shattering bone and muscle, organs and flesh.  He remembers the agony of it, of having barely enough breath to curse the one who was killing him.  

_You made me what I am…._

But Thrall had been right enough to deny it.  He’d brought himself to that end.  He’d made stupid mistakes, it was past time to admit that.  He, who’d never trusted anyone, had trusted the Sha to give him power.  Stupid, fucking stupid, and too blind to see.  And then he’d gone from that failure to another, even less noble one.  He’d tried to bend the Iron Horde to his will and make them a weapon capable of destroying his enemies.  Of destroying all of them.

_All of them, my own people, among them.  Not only a fool, but a traitor.  Everything I despised I became._

That would never happen again.  

“Admiring yourself?”

Garrosh flinches, focusing on Nazgrim’s reflection.   _I didn’t even hear him.  I need to work on that..._

His old companion is powerful in his new life.  One of the leaders of the Ebon Blade, a Horseman serving under Darion Morgraine and the Ebon Blade’s Deathlord, Nazgrim had been present when Garrosh woke.  That familiar face had steadied him.  By physical strength and an undeniable power of command, Nazgrim had kept him in place, had talked him back into life, telling him all he needed to know as his mind settled.

“Admiring?  No.  But I seem to be whole.”  He lifts one hand and curls it into a fist.  “And this works well enough.”

Nazgrim’s eyes become hooded.  “How do you feel?”

Garrosh settles himself and reads his body.  It’s solid and well enough but there are strange, numb places here and there inside.  He rests a palm on his chest above his heart; it beats but slowly, much less frequently than it did in life.  His chest rises and falls equally slowly as if his need for air is infrequent.  There is the ghost of pain but not enough to worry him.  He and pain are old friends and it’s almost comforting in is familiarity.  But there is something else.  A rising pressure not from one place but from all over.  He blinks and turns his head to the side.

“What...is that?”  He doesn’t explain, doesn't know how to describe it but Nazgrim obviously understands.

“Something inside pushing at you?”

“Yes.  That,” Garrosh says, nodding slowly.  “Pushing for what?”

Nazgrim turns and collects the big axe resting edge-down against the wall.  He grips it in one hand, runs a finger along a series of new patterns etched in the blade.  “You might say that Gorehowl here has been reborn as well.  The Ebon Blade smiths have etched runes into it to make it the weapon of a Death Knight.  These runes collect the lifeforce created by death and pain and funnel it into you.  This,” he says, tapping the metal so that it rang, “is what keeps you sane.  Without it, without taking and absorbing that lifeforce, you will lose your mind and become a thing like some mindless Scourge creature.  Never lose it, and never ignore the hunger stirring inside.”  He hands the axe to Garrosh.  “It’d be a pity if you had to be killed...again…”

Garrosh grins as he takes the heavy axe, but says nothing.  Once he would have crowed a challenge or sneered in bravado.  Such things seem less important now.  He is a Knight - _a Knight, such a human word_ \- of the Ebon Blade.

A Death Knight.  He is Undead, brought back to serve, not lead. That change in things bothers him only a little.  Not having those old standards to live up to gives a sense of freedom; he can stand back and view events from a very different perspective.  He’d been told of the Legion’s return.  Varian Wrynn dead.  Vol’jin dead.  Sylvanas leading the Horde...did Vol’jin lose his mind in his death throes?....So many dead and the Legion tore at Azeroth like a fel-driven beast with many mouths and an untold number of claws.

_But one head, still.  And if you cut off its head, any beast will die._

He smiles again, eyes flashing in the dimly lit room and he sees a similar glow from Nazgrim’s eyes.  War is the way for Orcs.  And it is also the way for Death Knights.  There must be death and pain to stay sane.  So be it.  Gorehowl feels perfect in his hand, solid and welcoming, the weight helps him balance and centres him.  What a gift it is, as is this new life.  He actually needs to kill, to keep his mind intact.  Not that he needs a reason to fight, but there’s a certain sweetness to it.

Nazgrim shows him around; he nods to other orc Death Knights he passes but speaks to no one.  He sees the humans and dwarves, goblins and Forsaken and all the others.  There is no separation here of factions and races, all merged together in Acherus to plan their moves against the Legion.  But outside of it, he thinks, it will be different.  The Alliance has not gone away, and neither has he.  Outside of it, he’ll seek out his enemies whatever role they play in this great, exciting war.

He finds a bathing room and cleans himself, washing away the taint of years of death, the dirt and dried blood.  Then he finds an armourer who offers him armour he rejects.  Its black and covering like a shroud and for all its obvious strength, he prefers a more open view.  In the end they make him one to his taste, that covers important things like joints, groin and guts, hamstring and throat, wrists and feet, but fitted elsewhere with chain made of steel and leather, allowing easy movement.  He waves away the helm and, dressed finally to his satisfaction, seeks drink and good company.

He finds out the names of the important among the Ebon Blade, watches them and learns how they interact with each other, and bides his time, playing the obedient knight.  And when he is settled and accepted, he goes to the stables and collects his striking undead mount, and flies off to Orgrimmar.

Along the way he sees the signs of the Legion’s incursions, and its difficult to miss the image of Argus glowing green and sickly in the sky above.  Even though he knows it isn’t actually there, but visible through some magical portal, its still an unsettling sight.  But the idea of going there and striking at the home and heart of the Legion excites him.  What a fight it would..will..be.  He can practically taste the death agonies of demons beneath Gorehowl’s blade.

Orgrimmar itself had changed little although he isn’t welcomed as he once would have been.  Somehow the people recognise that he’s new and unpledged and they hiss at him and even go so far as to throw things.  Garrosh sneers at them and rides on to greet Saurfang at the entry to the Hold.  The old Orc doesn’t seem that surprised to see him, and stands, hands on hips, as Garrosh dismounts and approaches.

“Hellscream.  So they did bring you back?  You planning on causing trouble?”

“Not to you, Varok.  Or should I say, High Overlord Saurfang.”  Garrosh shows his teeth in a grin.  “But the Legion, now there I can happily cause some trouble.”

Varok grunts as he runs his eyes over Garrosh.  “Well, we can certainly use the help.  Welcome to Orgrimmar, Death Knight. Now get out and kill some demons!”

The days blend together and Garrosh finds a rhythm in them that pleases him.  He travels first to the Broken Isles, acquaints himself with the situation there and makes himself known to the various factions who inhabit that shattered land.  Then it’s down to the Broken Shore to see where the first battle took place.  There are obvious signs of it around the dead, sour landscape - a Horde gunship smashed against the rocks, an Alliance ship with its back broken, lying half in and out of the water.  The air stinks of fel and decaying flesh, it’s a charnel house and he comes to hate the place fairly fast.  But he sees the famous Illidan Stormrage for the first time and is impressed despite himself.  Illidan is a huge figure, with his proudly upright wings and strong muscled body.  For all his self-assurance, Garrosh doubts he’d beat Illidan in a fight.  Not that he’d get the chance to have one; the leader of the Illidari has other things on his mind than fighting a single Death Knight, no matter who he was in life.

It is late in the day, a week after his first venture to the Broken Shore, and Garrosh is flying back to Deliverance Point to drop off his booty before heading up to Dalaran.  As he flies over a smokey patch of open ground he sees a single figure below fighting off a small squad of imps.  It's not that unusual but there is something familiar about the figure and, without knowing why, he circles down to take a closer look.

Whoever it is, they are piss-poor at fighting.  The figure is swiping away at the imps, who bound in and out shrieking and pitching felfire at the fighter, who somehow deflects it.  He - and it is a he, Garrosh realises - seems far more skilled at spellwork than swordwork but he’s determined, slashing and striking with the strangely shaped sword.

Recognition flares as the gem in the blade flashes, and Garrosh curses and knees his mount down to an unbalanced backwinged landing.  The fighting figure turns his head; Garrosh sees perspiration-slicked blonde hair and a pair of wide, wild blue eyes in a face known across any number of worlds.

Anduin Wrynn.

King Anduin he thinks in between leaping forward and kicking imps aside, stomping on them and hurling a wave of frozen air through the pack with the wide, powerful swing of Gorehowl’s blade.

“What,” he grumbles, as he slashes an imp in two, “the fuck are you doing?”

Anduin Wrynn staggers backwards away from the sweep of Garrosh’s axe.  “Not needing your help, Death Knight.”

Garrosh snorts a laugh as he despatches the last imp.  “Right.  And I thought you were smarter than that.”  Garrosh cleans the imp ichor from the axeblade with a cloth tucked in his belt pouch.  “You’re a priest, not a warrior.  Just because you have your father’s sword you…”

“Shut up.  Just...shut up.”

He blinks and looks down, surprised.  Anduin Wrynn had always seemed so contained, so damned humanly polite.  This young King Anduin had a bit of an edge to him.  “Fine.  Don’t thank me then.”

“I wasn’t going to.”  The King looks about, wiping a hand across his damp face.  “Why am I here?”

The question seems more rhetorical than anything, but Garrosh chips in anyhow.  “Good question.  Why aren’t you in Stormwind sitting on your nice throne to see if it fits.”  He glanced down at the sword still glowing in Wrynn’s hand.  “That sword looks wrong.  Where’s the rest of it?”

The King of Stormwind ignores the questions and straightens, shoving the half-sword into a sheath over his back.  He looks at the nearby corpse of a saddled gryphon and shakes his head.  “I’d appreciate a lift back to Deliverance Point if you could manage that.”

Garrosh grunts and puts fingers to his lips, makes a sharp, piercing whistle and the skeletal mount - that had been wisely hovering a safe distance above the fight - swoops down to land next to him, rattling its boney wings.  He climbs into the saddle and holds out his hand - Wrynn ignores that as well and leaps up behind him.  Tired?  Possibly.  Proud?  Undoubtedly.

“Hang on.”  The mount hunches down and then leaps upwards and he feels the smaller human arms wrap around him, hanging on tightly.  It’s a long way down, and even a Priest might find it a rough drop.

Rather than taking him to Deliverance, Garrosh turns and angles upwards, towards Dalaran.  His senses pick up blood - human blood - and that pressure inside him is being tickled by a feeling of pain coming from his passenger.  Physical pain, other pain, he doesn‘t know.  Apparently the hunger enjoyed pain in all its forms.

He drops down onto Krasus Landing and dismisses the mount.  Wrynn pulls his hood over his head, presumably to disguise himself.  It doesn’t seem a particularly effective disguise and Garrosh wonders why he’s even bothering about it, or anything the King of Stormwind might do.  Something about the slim figure tugs at him.  There’s a strange sense of dislocation that Garrosh senses because it’s painful, like ill-fitting armour.  It’s like the young man is disconnected, as if something is broken.  It’s not just grief, or even anger.  Garrosh isn’t that good at reading people - or at least he hadn’t been before.  But all kinds of discomfit and pain leak out of the human like blood, and there’s a bit of that too.  Why isn’t he healing himself?  Lots of questions and damned if he knows why he’s even bothering to think them.  But he’s curious, and bored and Anduin Wrynn is a puzzle in that moment that offers some entertainment.  “You thirsty?  Hungry?”

“Yes.  No.  Why?”

“‘cause I’m both.  Let’s go somewhere and you can drink and buy me one too, for saving your silly human life.”  And he smiles down at the narrowed, suspicious glare from those blue eyes under the edge of the hood.  They stand there as the crowd swirls around them, a little island of stillness in the activity, and the King finally shrugs.

“Very well.  One drink...”

“...after another.  Follow me.”

And surprisingly, he does...past the Alliance enclave and down the ramp to the Underbelly.  There is an Inn there, a seedy, smelly place but it suits his mood well and Wrynn doesn’t seem to mind.  They find a table in a corner and Garrosh starts in on his first beer.  The King sips his, nose wrinkling in distaste.  “This isn’t very good beer.”

“It’s wet and alcoholic. So, fill me in.”

He watches as Wrynn’s eyes focus on him, blinking in the poorly lit, unpleasant little room.  “On which part?  You’ve been dead a while.”

“Oh,” he said, waving a hand and sloshing beer on the sticky table top, “I know about the big things.  Like your father being dead.  And Vol’jin - no great loss there - and Sylvannas being Warchief - which is the most stupid fucking thing I’ve heard since the last time a human asked me to trust him.  I meant, on how the whole war is going.  Don’t seem to be going all that well, really.”

“And what makes you think I know anything about how the ‘whole war is going’?”  

Unaccustomed he might be at reading humans, but even Garrosh recognises bitterness.  “You’re the King, aren’t you?  How can you not know?”

“I’m King of Stormwind.  Ask me about Stormwind.  I can tell you a lot about it.  But I don’t lead the Alliance.”

Now, there’s another hint of that same bitterness.  Or something else that Garrosh can’t figure out, so he doesn’t try to.  “Hmph, Alliance politics is like a gut cramp; something I don’t enjoy experiencing.  But who is in charge then?  Don’t tell me it’s Greymane.”  He considers it, sipping on his beer.  “Still, there’d be a kind of balance to that; he’d hate the Horde even more if it’s got Sylvanas in charge.”

They talk for a while as their meal is served;  trencher bread with some sort of stew and a bowl of fruit and cheese.  Wrynn picks at his food, delicate-seeming fingers crumbling the soaked bread into balls.  Garrosh digs in, feeding handfuls of it to his empty stomach - it had been a while since he’d last eaten.  A long, long while. That thought makes him grin around his tusks as he wipes streaks of gravy from his mouth and chin.  

Fed at last, they go to leave, but Garrosh first saunters into one of the rings and hurls a spit at a watching human warrior.  That’s more than enough challenge and the big armoured male leaps inwards, pulling out his two swords and whirling into the fight with a shout.  Joy fills Garrosh’s middle as the heat and rush of battle swirls through him.  His axe carves icy patterns in the air and although the human is good, he isn’t good enough and he eventually falls, crushed and bleeding, to the dirty, greasy floor.  The man’s pain spirals upwards into Gorehowl’s blade, making the runes gleam.  From there it flows into Garrosh’s hands, up his arms and into his chest and the pressure, that had been growing, eased back like a satiated beast.  

He kicks the groaning man in the side and grunts in pleasure at the sharp spike of pain that generates.  Garrosh is surprised when a hand shoves him aside and he looks down into Wrynn’s flushed, angry face.

“You’ve defeated him, leave him be.”

“I fight to the death.  In this place, I fight till they can’t get back up.”  And then he leans forward and puts his full weight on the man’s leg and grunts in satisfaction at the shriek as the bone snaps.  “And the old saying about not kicking someone when they’re down was probably made up by someone who got knocked down a lot.”

Wrynn takes off his cloak and tosses it over a nearby bench.  “Fine, why don’t you try that on me,” he says as he turns and spits straight into Garrosh’s face.

He doesn’t bother to wipe his face, he just charges.

It’s a fight unlike any other he’d ever known.  The King doesn’t use the sword, he uses his priestly power as he dodges and weaves away from Garrosh’s attack.  When he charges at the smaller figure, Wrynn dances around him, hurling spells that slam into him with tremendous power.  Garrosh realises Wrynn is pulling his shots, that he could kill with any one of them.  A white beam from that pale, seemingly weak hand hits him in the chest, knocking him backwards and Garrosh rolls, smashing furniture, smaller bodies, rubbish...he has no idea what he hits in the process of getting away from that deadly energy.

And it’s exhilarating!  Rage builds, firing along his nerves and he leaps up and roars, arms wide in a way that would intimidate a lesser foe.  Not this one though; the young man just smiles, wipes a smear of blood from his cheek and extending his arm back then forward, sends a wave of light that hisses like contained lightning.  He drops to one knee, flips Gorehowl horizontally and flings it through the air.  It spins, growling its deadly song, and thuds butt-first into Wrynn’s chest.  Garrosh hears something crack; Wrynn cries out and is thrown down by the impact at the same moment the wave of light hits Garrosh, slamming him backwards into the wall.  He feels ribs tear and break and tastes blood.

And as he lies there, blinking up at the ceiling, he feels a foot on his chest pressing down just deeply enough to push on the damaged ribs and he thinks blearily _a healer knows about pain and isn’t that a useful thing_ as that small, determined foot makes him whimper like a pup.

He looks up, trying to breathe through the pain but his vision is blurring and his body doesn’t seem to want to move.  He hears the young King’s soft, shaky voice above him that still manages to penetrate the noise in his head.  “Do you submit?”

Garrosh is groping for a suitable response about the time he passes out.

  



	2. Anduin

Anduin stands for a long time studying his reflection in the full-length mirror.  He had stepped from his bath and was towelling himself off when he stopped to look at himself, and it seemed for a moment he was seeing a stranger. 

Some things are familiar.  His skin is pale as it had always been, with rarely sufficient time spent in the sun to darken it.  Yet it seems even paler, almost washed out, a translucent shimmer overlaying it as if he were dissolving into shadow.  He wonders if its delusion; no-one has said anything about him looking any different. But he sees the changes.  His face, while not exactly gaunt, is thinner and he has lost much of the plumpness he bore during his childhood. There are faint blue shadows under his eyes and his fingers rest on the large scar on his chest, a reminder of how close he’d come to death at the hands of Sha-infested Garrosh Hellscream. 

He takes a deep breath and winces at the pain in his side, and the air is suddenly disturbed by a sharp, bitter breath of wind that stirs the single candle on the table.  He wants to think it's a coincidence, just a breeze come into the room from outside and that he didn't actually hear a vague, discordant whisper in his ear as the pain rippled along his nerves.  Perhaps it **is** imagination...but he doesn't think so. 

That pain from his brief fight with Garrosh is in the bone, and such damage takes longer to heal than injury to flesh.  He’d treated himself and that normally would have been an end of it.  Yet that pain lingered, a reminder that one didn't fight an Orc without risking such injuries, and worse.   

He tosses the towel aside and reaches for his underthings arranged over the back of a nearby chair.  Each small movement causes a matching pinch inside and the air stirs again, the whisper repeats its and shadows in the corners of the room seem to darken.  Anduin is reminded that shadows are just as real as the light that makes them.  If you snuff out the candle, the shadows vanish.  And it’s impossible to have that light without it causing darkness as well.  It’s an odd dichotomy that he’s only recently considered. 

He knows the Naaru wouldn’t agree with him.  Or, more likely, they would have an understanding of cosmic truths deeper than his own.  And then they’d tell him he was wrong and not bother to explain why because he was just a man and they were immortals. 

But lately he’d found that acceptance from those ‘older and wiser’ than him wasn’t enough.  He has his own absolutes, his own limits.  Their justification for him doing other than what he wants, or needs, to do is becoming harder to accept.  And just outside those justifications lay alternatives.  Light, Darkness, the Void.  The Void seems to lie somewhere between the other two. 

He realises that with that understanding he’d opened a path to the Void, and it’s the Void he is hearing more strongly now.  When he is lonely, hurting, grieving, suffering from any doubt or deep trouble, it is there, whispering at the edge of his consciousness.  The Light, in its purity, gives him strength.  The Void … well, that offers strength as well, but of a very different sort.  There is nothing healing about it.  It is purely destructive and its power is seemingly limitless.  Doubtless the Naaru would tell him not to touch it because it isn’t the Light.  But it isn’t evil either.  It isn’t like the Sha of Pandaria or the fel of the Legion.  It’s Darkness, no more deadly than the night is to the day.   

 _It’s not evil, though evil creatures may use it.  But I’m not evil.  And I never will be. Surely that is enough..._  

Finally dressed, he leaves his bathing room to find a servant waiting with a message.  His chief spy, Mathias Shaw, is waiting in his office to present the week’s report and he turns that way, head down in thought.  It will probably be much as it usually is:  Mathias basically reading the report sitting on the desk in front of him, working though it in that familiar toneless voice with little inflection and hardly seeming to draw breath.   

Mathias Shaw’s voice is a background drone that he can mostly ignore.  He sits where he always does when he delivers his regular security update and the fact that he is basically reading the report he will leave with his King seems to Anduin a waste of time.  He wonders if Mathias uses it as an excuse to assess Anduin’s state, and report on it to Velen or one or more of the other leaders.   _You’re just being paranoid._  

He doesn't ask, Mathias would likely deny it anyhow.  Anduin will read the reports later and submit any questions he has, which are generally few.  Mathias is very thorough and….a word catches his attention, bringing him into focus. 

“...Garrosh Hellscream recently attacked certain of our forces in Stormheim...” 

Abruptly Anduin straightens, the sudden flexing of muscle causing a spike of pain from the part-healed ribs.  The sensation swims along his nerves, sharpening his awareness, stirring something cool and dark in his middle.  Where before he’d been drifting, bored and fighting the frustration that had been growing lately, now he is awake and aware.  His pain centres him, the air clears and tingles, the light brightens.  He focuses on Mathias, projecting calm disinterest. 

“Oh?  Did he survive?” 

“Apparently.  Even undeath doesn’t seem to stop him being a nuisance.  Well,” Mathias says, gathering the papers together, “that is the gist of it, sire.  I’ll leave the reports with you and if you have any further questions, please pass them along.  Is there anything else I can do for you, Majesty?” 

“No, thank you Mathias, that will be all.” 

The older man nods and stands, dips his head in polite homage and departs.   

 _Garrosh Hellscream._ Anduin’s fingers stir of their own accord, making small circles over the smooth desk surface.  Their meeting on the Broken Shore had been the most surprising and oddly satisfying thing that had happened to Anduin in recent times.  Garrosh didn’t give a hoot about Anduin’s position or rank or responsibilities.  The big orc Death Knight had treated him in a casual, almost-comradely manner, a mixture of snide put-downs and amused arrogance that had been a refreshing change.  He didn’t cosset, hover or protect.  He was rough, coarse, unpredictable.  And violent, like a storm.  He delivers pain with the same natural enthusiasm of a force of nature, with no words of forgiveness or pity, with no excuse and no denial.   

And Anduin was - and is - disturbed to find he appreciated that, even...liked it. 

 _Like isn’t perhaps the right word.  Enjoyed it?  Something like that.  But I didn’t hate it, and that’s something new._  

The pain centres him, refines his awareness to a glaringly clear pinpoint of concentration.  Everything - physical sensations, emotional responses, thought - became more intense.  Colours were brighter and all doubt and internalisations faded.  He didn’t mull over his place, his responsibilities, whether he was good enough.   _I wasn't my father’s son, I was me.  Right then that person was just me._  

And there had been something else.  When it had been inflicted, certain parts of the pain had shot through him like tiny electric charges that delivered a kind of pleasure in equal measure to the pain.   _That_ had been the most surprising thing of all. 

Anduin needs to know more, to understand this new aspect of himself.  Somehow, he feels it is tied to his growing awareness of the Void.  Perhaps it awakened needs and hungers of a different sort to that which came from the Light.  Shadow magics had always been something he’d avoided; his Holy powers had been sufficient and others seemed to expect him to be that kind of Priest.  But if he was to serve his people, his world - and himself - he needs to learn everything he can of what it means to be who and what he is. 

Sliding upright, Anduin heads for his room to gather his travelling pack and change into more comfortable, less formal gear.  He leaves a note for his people and heads to the portal room to travel through to the Broken Isles.   

He steps through into Dalaran with no real idea where to go, or even what he is looking for.  As he stands at the edge of Krasus Landing, a sense of welcome drifts into his mind carried by a faint, shadowy power.   _Come…_  There is no sense of danger, only an invitation that hints at something he needs to know.  And it centres on the portal to the Netherlight Temple. 

So he goes through the temple portal, walks slowly down the ramp into the Temple proper.  He has never been there before and he steps aside to let other priests pass, and looks about, fascinated and curious.  It’s very beautiful, far more so than any church he’d ever seen before.  There a bright serenity about and the sense of energy that drifts like the condensed essence of power through the air.  Conversation is muted, somehow hushed; it is a Temple after all and there’s a natural quietness to it despite its size and the many priests of all races and orders who are there.  It's a familiar comfort, that quiet, and Anduin begins to relax.  And then he feels the faint trace of something else and realises at last what it is. 

 _The Shadow._ The other path of priesthood. 

“It’s an odd name.  Netherlight.  Don’t you think?” 

Anduin stops, surprised and turns towards the speaker.  It’s a woman and he can’t decide her age; no longer young, not elderly but there is something about her that tells him she has seen far more years than he has.  Her eyes, intensely blue, stare into his; they are almost the same height and she’s wearing grey and white robes that have seen a lot of wear.  Whoever it is, he doesn’t recognise her, though she obviously knows him. 

“Netherlight?  I...don’t know.  Haven't considered it.” 

She nods, eyelids lowering to partly cover her intense gaze.  “I’m always looking for hidden messages, just the way my mind works.  In this case, it's the name - Nether and the Light.  Two parts of a whole.”  She tilts her head sideways and tucks a strand of short blonde hair behind one ear.  “Why are you here, King?” 

“I might answer with a question,” he responds coolly, “such as, why is it your business?” 

She doesn't move for a moment, then her face lights and she laughs.  “I’m sorry, that’s me, naturally nosey.  My name is Natalie Seline.  Welcome to Netherlight.” 

He recognises the name but can’t remember in what context.  “We haven’t met before, have we?” 

“Oh no.  I know you by reputation of course, but I’ve been...away...from quite a long time.”  She turns and gestures further into the Temple.  “Would you care to join me for refreshment?  I have some tea and cookies, homemade and very nice.” 

Curious, he follows her down and they take a seat to one side of the central open area.  She pours him a cup and takes and sniffs it; mint, with a hint of something else.” 

“Netherbloom,” she supplied, stirring a spoon of honey into her own cup.  “An old family recipe.  It has mild healing and invigorating qualities and isn't anywhere near as addictive as espresso.” 

It’s sharp to the taste and he adds some honey and finds it a pleasant drink, different enough to please his palate.  He’s nibbling on one of the cookies that tempt him to eat more despite his intention to only be polite as she leans back, her cup held in both hands. 

“Have you ever heard of the Cult of Forgotten Shadow?” 

Anduin stills, the half-eaten cookie part way towards his mouth.  “Of course I have.  Wasn't it destroyed?” 

“Say rather, subdued.  Never quite destroyed.  And on my return from the Void, it was re-established.” 

Anduin places the cookie carefully onto the table and stares at her.  “Yes, now I remember.  You are the Great Heretic my Bishop taught me about when I was younger.” 

“I bet he did.”  Smiling, she leans forward to refill his tea cup.  “We dared to believe that to truly understand the Light, you first have to understand the Darkness.  Many followers of the Light were single-minded in the perception of reality, choosing to believe that the Light is all there is.  Nothing could be further from the ultimate Truth.  The Light and Void are equal and fundamental aspects of the cosmos and to deny or ignore one half of such reality is foolishness.  To fully understand and use one, you must discover, appreciate and use the other.” 

The hours pass quickly that day as he talks to Natalie Seline and learns about the Shadow.  She shows him through the hall where Shadow priests work and study; he sees some of them struggling with the power, watches as they force themselves backwards away from insanity.   

“As long as you stay in command of yourself,” she says quietly as he watches a goblin gibbering and shaking in a corner, “you can't lose your mind.    Some are just not equipped to deal with it.  It’s a challenge they cannot succeed in, any more than some are unsuited to be warriors or shamans or,” she finishes with a small smile, “kings." 

Anduin isn't sure that he likes her – or trusts her.  Seline doubtless has her own agenda and he has lately begun to realise that there are few absolutes in life besides the obvious personal ones.  His love for his father and his father's love for him, his devotion to his city and his people.  But beyond that, reality starts to assume shades, even in places where everything once seemed very clear. 

No-one would have expected Benedictus, leader of the Church of the Holy Light, to turn away from the Light as he did.  When a bishop of the Light can lose touch with the Light it is obvious that even the Light cannot guarantee fidelity.  _It is a person's own strength that defines them, not the Light or the Shadow or anything else.  A sword does not kill, the one who wields it does._  

But he knows that's somewhat simplistic.  Without that sword, they would be less able to kill.  Without power, one is powerless. 

He is considering philosophies that he never had before, and finds it difficult to focus. Seline seems to sense that and takes him aside for a final talk.  They meet in a room in the Legerdemain and she pours him a tea as she talks.  "Ultimately the only way to know if the Shadow is for you is to try it.  And I suggest this:  keep in mind one thing that is more important to you than power or wealth or privilege, and concentrate on that when you waver.  I believe the power of the Light comes from the heart, and the power of Shadow comes from the mind.  You have access to both. Use something from your heart to control what dwells in your mind." 

It seems to be reasonable advice and he leaves her to do just that.

 

Stormheim draws him.  He knows he is unlikely to see Garrosh there and he isn’t sure why he would want to.  What exactly is going on in his subconscious he has no idea but the idea that Garrosh might feature there is somewhat disturbing.  In any event it's as good a destination as any.  

The area is quite hilly and mountainous but being part of the Broken Isles it naturally has extensive shorelines.  It's a hot day; even by the sea the sky seems breathless except for the air sweep of his gryphon's wings.  The ocean sparkles beneath him, drawing him down.  As he rounds a headland he spots three shapes that stop abruptly at sight of him and gesture upwards. 

Demons.  Eredar demons. 

Pleasure swirls in his chest as they screech their curses at him.  Both aspects of his power demand a response. 

He leaps from his mount just as it lands, rolls and thinks _Pain…_ and the first of the demons shrieks and falls, shuddering as the Word thunders into him.  It's the easiest thing to switch his aim from one target to the next, as the Word echoes in his brain and the Shadow carries it into the bodies of his enemies.  Void tendrils curl around him as he delivers death to the demons and he feels no remorse.  These creatures would destroy him, his people, his world, without a moment's doubt or pity.  Both the Light and the Shadow consider them worthy of death. 

It's only afterwards, as he stands between their still bodies, that he realises he did not once consider drawing on the Light.  The Shadow swirls around him in misty streaks of purple and blue and black, singing to him in a tongue he doesn’t understand except on some basic level.  Power, pleasure…and pain.  He felt the demons' pain as they died, connected to them as he was through the shades of the Word.  The pain drifts through him still and he closes his eyes, forces the pain away and ensures he has complete control of himself. 

All of his senses stir awake and he looks down.  He is stained with their fluids, blood and brains and other things and he pulls his clothing off with a disgusted sound, and walks towards the water.  There is nothing dangerous in it anywhere nearby so, naked and still holding his stinking clothing, he dives into it.  It feels good, cleansing and cool and he splashes about, diving and swimming, then washes the muck from his gear and drapes it over a nearby piece of driftwood to dry.  He remembers the pack on his gryphon and collects it and, still naked, sits in the shade on the warm sand to eat.  Flies buzz around the corpses some distance away.  Azeroth is already starting to claim them, and there is a certain balance in that. 

"Did you make that mess?" 

Anduin jerks backwards in surprise and looks up towards the source of the voice.  It's Garrosh Hellscream, sitting on the edge of a low cliff above him, legs dangling over the edge.  "If so, well done." 

Although he doesn’t appear immediately aggressive, he is still a Horde Death Knight and Anduin edges sideways towards his pile of gear.  "And what is it to you, orc?"  He fights to keep his voice calm, to not antagonise the big orc, but the mere sight of him triggers that antagonistic response.  But Garrosh just grins crookedly and picks at his teeth with a stick.  

"Nothing at all.  Just curious"  And then, faster than Anduin believed possible, Garrosh moves and Anduin feels an invisible fist close around him and he is suddenly up the top of the cliff and the invisible hand has become real ones holding him with his arms pulled tight behind his back. 

"You should not challenge me," Garrosh says, his face very close to Anduin's his eerie white eyes glowing, "Especially when you're naked." 

"I am never entirely naked," Anduin hisses as tendrils of power begin to coalesce around his head.  Then he is being violently shaken and his concentration evaporates as Garrosh's hands shift down to his sides and he is shoved backwards hard into a tree. 

Anduin gasps as pain ripples through him.  The impacts knocks the breath from his lungs, the bark is rough and uneven and it cuts into him, slicing and digging like a dozen tiny daggers.  Garrosh is very close to him, so close he can smell the unique sharp tang of orc sweat and he continues to push Anduin backwards in rough, grinding jerks so that the pain spreads along his nerves in a smoky miasma.  He can still think, can very much still feel and he knows that it would take only a moment or two to kill the orc with the full strength of his powers but he's too intent on experiencing that pain – and he can, on some level, feel it being fed to the Death Knight like sustenance, like water to quench a deep thirst.  

It's startling to realise that this doesn’t bother him at all.  It seems a fair exchange to give something at the same time that he receives pleasure.  And it is pleasure of some kind he knows, when he notes the beginning of arousal, which is perhaps the only awkward thing about his state at all. 

The pain and the anger and the tension swirl around in his brain, making whispers.  It’s the edge of madness creeping in, it almost overwhelms the sound of Garrosh's voice that stirs close to his ear.   "Can I tell you how good it feels, to hurt you?  To have my hunger fed by the King of Stormwind's pain?  I could…."  But the words start blending together, the white noise in his head grows louder and he knows he has to learn from this, control it, master it… _As long as you stay in command of yourself, you can't lose your mind_ …that’s what she had told him.  So he draws on the power of the Heart, on the memory of his father, and forces back the insanity that stirs in the deepest part of the shadow.  It mutters in annoyance and frustration but bows to his command and slides down and away.  And the pain that Garrosh is giving him to feed his own needs becomes purely sensation.  Even when the orc bends his head and bites deeply into Anduin's shoulder and his blood flows and down his arm and chest and he slashes at Garrosh in reaction with the power of an avenging shade. 

Moments or minutes later he is lying in the sand by the water, half on top of Garrosh whose almost as bloodied and broken as he is.  That Garrosh is alive is testament to his strength but he's injured and groaning and Anduin rolls away and into the water, hissing as the salt strings his wounds.  It is a long time since he last hurt quite so much.  But there's a way to fix that. 

He stands, collects his clothing and pulls on his pants and shirt, then gathers in the Light to himself.  It feels strange for a moment but then not as he heals his wounds, and after some consideration, he turns the healing to Garrosh as well.  Finally, tired and aching from the residual damage, they both sit under the cliff edge with their legs out and not saying too much for a time. 

"I should thank you," Anduin says finally, wiping an embarrassingly shaky hand across his face.  Garrosh grunts and bends forward, groaning as joints click from the strain. 

"For what?  For nearly killing you?" 

"You didn’t come anywhere near killing me, and I'm thankful for your restraint as well.  But you hurt me, you caused me pain, and pushed me in ways I needed to be pushed.  Nobody I know would do that.  Nobody would understand it either." 

He turns and sees the bright eyes shining under lowered eyelids.  Garrosh grunts and nods slowly.  "You overestimate my ability to understand humans.  But, well, if you ever need someone to beat you up again, just call on me.  Happy to oblige."  He struggles to his feet, collects his big axe and turns to look down at Anduin.  His expression is orcishly unreadable.  "You are a strange human, Anduin Wrynn."  He offers a brief, sarcastic salute and climbs awkwardly to the top of the hill until he is gone from view. 

Anduin looks about at the bloodied, untidy beach, collects the rest of his gear and calls for his gryphon.  As he turns for Dalaran he feels a change in the air.  There is a storm on the horizon beyond the hills; the clouds are gathering and the wind shears inshore. 

Lightning wakes and follows him all the way home.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story grabbed in some indefinable way, and took me into interesting areas of consideration involving pain to one that triggers madness at the same time it feeds another to prevent madness. I couldnt help running with the idea, and its one that probably needs more investigation..... (((:

**Author's Note:**

> I came up with this idea - Garrosh reborn as a DK, meeting Anduin who has just visited the Broken Shore, found the partial sword and is not entirely himself. It seemed that an old enemy who needed to inflict pain and a young man who perhaps finds that receiving pain is a release, might go well together....


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